


Wrong End of the Gun

by ASongofSixpence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Guns, Humor, Kid John, M/M, Minor Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASongofSixpence/pseuds/ASongofSixpence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's life is continuously shaped by bullets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong End of the Gun

**Author's Note:**

> (Unbetaed, as per always. Anyone want to help me out? ...guys?)  
> Writing this was purely indulgent because I was able to both incorporate a quote from one of my favorite books and write about guns. For the record I don't know a damn thing about guns except maybe how to fire one and that getting shot pointblank with an airsoft gun really friggen hurts, so if I say something stupid then I am trusting you gun aficionados to correct my idiocy. Really guys. Make me look better.  
> Other than that this story pretty much wrote itself. I love it when that happens.

_"There was a gun in the drawer of the desk. It sat like a song in his mind, made up of the same four chords, like the bass guitar line had got stuck there."_

_-I Am the Messenger, Markus Zusak_

 

John fires his first gun when he's twelve. It's a tired old BB gun, something his dad had left to gather dust in the garage after the divorce, and he had found it while looking for a hammer for his mum. He doesn't find the hammer but he pockets the gun and the next day he goes out to the backyard to fire it at the trees. He asks Harry if she wants to join him but at this point she's sixteen and secretive and so sneers that she'd rather wash the dog. That suits John just fine- she'd probably be a lousy shot anyway.

There are about twenty pellets still loaded, but the trigger is stiff from disuse and he mistakenly fires the first three at the ground and nearly blinds himself when they ricochet back up at him.

The next five are shot pointedly away from his face.

By the time the 13th pellet is fired John has improved his aim and decides that he's ready to try for more advanced targets. The tree trunks make a satisfying tinking noise when he hits them, and he fires off almost all of his round that way. He grins; he's pretty sure that he's a natural. His dad would have (probably) been proud.

He's almost out of BB's though- his mum would probably buy him some more if he asked but that would mean he'd have to explain where he got the gun in the first place, and every time he brings up his dad his mum gets that look on her face- the one that makes her look like she's just caught a whiff of something unpleasant- and he really hates it when she looks like that.

He turns to go back inside; maybe he'll ask for some BB's for his birthday or something, then he can tell his mum one of his friends bought him the gun as a present. As he's just to the door a shadow ghosts across his face and then glides over the grass, a lazy crow dipping into the trees.

Absently, idly, John swings the gun up over his head and points it at the bird. "Pow." He says as he pulls the trigger.

The crow makes a dull thud as it hits the ground.

John stands still for a moment, the beginnings of something horrible burbling up in his chest. When the bird still doesn't move he takes a few hesitant steps forward and stands over it. There's a neat hole in the middle of its breast, blood staining feathers, its wings still spread as if in mid-flight.

He hadn't meant to kill it, he really hadn't- hadn't even thought about the possibility of its death until it hit the ground. He had been acting on impulse and the feeling little boys get when they hold dangerous toys in their hands. He hadn't meant to kill it-

But he had killed it. Killed it like he was entitled to it simply because he could. He has taken the life of something and he has no idea how to make up for that. His mum doesn't really take them to church anymore, too tired she says, but he knows for certain that such a pointless murder is not something that can be forgiven lightly- knows it like he knows intimately the hard pit of emotion forming in his stomach. Maybe not in so many words, but even in a childish way he understands that he has... destroyed something. Completely but unwittingly destroyed it.

He kneels down in front of the crow, placing the BB gun beside him, and reaches out to touch its glossy feathers. The feeling makes him flinch, draw his hand back sharply- it's too stiff, too unnaturally still for something so wild and foreign- and so he whispers, "Sorry."

He'll have to get rid of the bird somehow- he doesn't want to- _can't_ tell his mum about this. He doesn't know...

He only pushes the crow about half an inch before he has to stop and take a few deep breaths- clench and unclench his fists. "Sorry!" He says again, and then grabs the crow by its wings and runs toward the trees. His hands are sticky and warm and his fingers slip through the bird’s feathers more than once. He keeps a running commentary, "Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry," and as soon as he reaches the safety of the brush he drops it again.

He glances back at the house but no one is coming out to ask what he's doing and so he takes another deep breath. He's not a little kid like his mum thinks; he's not going to cry, but he brushes some leaves over the body and shivers. "You shouldn't... be dead." He says with finality, and then goes back into the house to wash the blood off his hands.

Later in life, whenever anyone asks him why he wants to be a doctor, he of course does not mention the crow- doesn't even think about it really- but it's still in his head somewhere- with it's blank, staring eyes and blood slick feathers. Once, it had occurred to him that perhaps he's punishing himself in some involuntary way- that maybe his quest to heal the sick and injured has somehow been influenced by that one meaningless death.

It's silly, and he doesn't like to think about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next shot is fired much later and when he has much more than crow blood on his hands.

The bullet takes him hard in the shoulder and sends his world spinning off its axis. There’s a lot of yelling and swearing and gunfire around him but John can't see anything but the blinding blue of the Afghan sky, cloudless for miles. The color is all consuming- deep and opaque and overwhelming. For some reason he finds himself thinking of London and its heavy grey cloud-cover, how he had once broken up with a college girlfriend while they were walking back from the cinema together. They had been sharing an umbrella and he had walked with her all the way back to her flat afterwards. He had pretended not to notice that she was crying because he didn't know how to comfort her. He doesn't know what makes him think of it- the memory held up against his current life is disorienting. For a moment a dark speck catches his eye high above him, wheeling in circles.

And then the pain hits him.

He's heard soldiers say that it's the shock of being hit that really gets you, rather than the wound itself, but he quickly determines that they were all lying bastards. For a bizarre moment he thinks that someone has dug their fingers into his shoulder, but when he turns his head all he sees is blood and cloth and mutilated flesh.

He jerks his head away and gags, fire licking up his neck and down his arm, pounding in his chest. The sand seems too bright suddenly, like a field of glass, winking cruelly. He squints into the light, his vision dancing strangely, and when it clears John realizes he's gazing into the dark eyes of the soldier who he'd been trying to patch up before he'd been shot, now vacant. Upon closer inspection the man's face looks familiar, though John has never met him before today, and he feels a sort of kindred tug when he looks at the way his mouth has fallen slack.

It's because he's dead, John realizes faintly, he now knows intimately the faces that the dead make. The way the muscles settle in the body of those eternally resting. The way his will end up too.

The thought hits him solidly in the stomach and sets his fluttering heart's wild beating up a notch. He doesn't want to die, not here or now- not that he can think of a more suitable place. He has to live because he selfishly doesn't want to die with all these other soldiers- with foreign sand in his mouth and three hours of sleep weighing down his bones. Or maybe that's just the blood loss. He’s not too sure anymore.

He tosses his head back and tries, belatedly, to reach for his radio, but he can't get his arm to bend without the world whirling violently around him- some sort of sick madhouse vertigo.

He doesn't want to die alone, he thinks frantically, irrationally. He tries to reach out and take the hand of the dead man next to him but the movement sends an explosion of pain ricocheting back through his body so he stops. He has the vague notion that he has a pinwheel inside his head; someone’s just given it a good spin and now his thoughts are fluttering away. He can’t concentrate. He watches their blood intermingle.

"Please God," He thinks desperately, "Let me live."

And then his eyes roll into the back of his head.

The next time he wakes up it's to find Bill Murray straddling him and cursing wildly. "Good to see you mate." He thinks fuzzily. He wants to say something to this extent but Murray takes that moment to press something against his shoulder and so John only manages to gasp out, "Careful!" and then he blacks out again.

He spends the next week in the hospital pressed between two clean white sheets. The drugs they give him are so strong that the first three times they tell him he's been discharged he's forgotten by the next time he wakes up. Even on the plane back it feels like a bit of a shock- like they hadn't given him fair warning before they uprooted his life. It's ridiculous, because it's not as if it was their fault he had been shot, but he childishly feels as if he's being punished for something.

London is greyer than he'd remembered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time John fires a gun he takes one life and saves another.

An old cab driver lies dead by his hands. He giggles with his new flatmate in the parking lot.

It's not the last time he kills for Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

John doesn’t remember much about the first time he kissed Sherlock; a haze of snow and blood and adrenalin obscures the memory. He can draw up the image of a man holding a gun to Sherlock’s temple, and Sherlock’s face being calm and utterly, utterly confidant because he’s an idiot, and doesn’t he know what guns can do? Hasn’t he, like John, been marked by them? Hasn’t he learned their lessons and been humbled by their power? Apparently not.

And then John has knocked the man out- he doesn’t remember much of that either, there had been a scuffle, the barrel of a gun had slammed across John’s face- and he has pushed Sherlock against the wall and is kissing him like he’s never going to breath again. Sherlock is an idiot. He’s a genius, but he’s an idiot and he thinks he’s indestructible which is a horrible combination as far as John is concerned. Sherlock is unresponsive for long enough for John to think, “Oh, maybe this is a terrible idea” but then his broad hands jerk up to press John’s head forward hungrily. John’s nose is bleeding heavily and probably getting all over Sherlock’s coat, which he will complain about later, but for now it is perfect. It is just the bitter cold of the snow flurries and the hot hot heat of Sherlock’s iron grasp and the vague notion that yes, this is very good, this is very good indeed.

No shots are fired then, and so this moment should play no part in the tally really, imaginary though it is.

It’s good. It’s perfect. John counts it anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The call comes for them at 4 o'clock in the evening on a Sunday. John is sitting in the kitchen updating his blog when Sherlock's mobile rings.

"Your phone's going off." He calls into the living room.

"As always your observational skills are top notch, John." Sherlock snarks back lazily.

John scowls and rubs a hand through his hair. They haven't had a case for three days, and while normally that would spell disaster for his peace of mind, the only way it's affected Sherlock is that he's become more, well, himself. "You could pick it up."

"Yes, obviously."

"But you're not going to."

"No."

After a few more rings John gives up, stomps into the room, and snatches up the phone from where it lies a mere foot away from Sherlock's hand. He would glare but he's learned that it's much less affective when the receiving end has his eyes closed. The caller ID is unlisted.

"Hello Dr. Watson," Anthea says before he can attempt a word of greeting, "Please pass me over to Sherlock."

"It's eerie how you do that." He tells her, and then puts the phone in Sherlock's already outstretched hand.

"Hello." He drawls, eyes still closed. After a long pause he says, "No," and then, "Goodbye." and places the phone back on the side table.

"What was that then?" John asks from the armchair he has settled in to when it is clear that Sherlock doesn't feel the need to enlighten him.

Sherlock waves a hand. "Mycroft has been shot."

"What, how? Where?" John's body tenses in shock. "Christ, is he alright?"

Sherlock shrugs and rolls over onto his side, wrapping his red robe a little tighter around him. "The stomach she said. His identity was compromised in Jordan and he had to be flown to the nearest hospital. He's back in England now."

John blinks. "The stomach, Jesus; are there going to be any serious repercussions?"

"How should I know?"

Not for the first time, he wonders just how the Holmes brothers were raised; if familial attachments were seen as weakness or if it's just Sherlock. "Well it's nice to see you're so concerned. Are you going to go visit him?"

"Why would I?"

"Because he's your brother, Sherlock, and you should, I don’t know, care?"

Sherlock sighs heavily. "Oh, that again. I thought you were over that."

"Over it! Really, I-" The doorbell rings and John's head swivels reflexively to look out the window where a sleek black car idles in the street. He frowns fiercely. "I thought you said you weren't going to see him."

"I'm not."

"Then...?"

Sherlock rolls back over to look at him and sighs heavily, as if John is missing something obvious. And Hell, maybe he is. God knows he'll never catch up to Sherlock's brain. "His assistant asked if I would like to go visit him. I declined, but obviously it was never really a question of my preferences when she was already parked outside at the time. Doubtless Mycroft already knew what my answer would be but he sent the car anyway, so either he thought I would change my mind, unlikely, or send someone else. Guess which one I'm going to do."

John stares at him. "I honestly don't know what I see in you."

"My charming personality?" He gives him the fake smile he gives Molly when he wants something from her and then trades it for a droll look when John grimaces. "You were the one who was worried about him in the first place, so I don't know why you wouldn't want to go see him. This caring thing isn't very reliable, is it?"

John is scowling but he's also up and searching for his jacket. "What the hell am I supposed to say to him? Hi, good to see you, sorry Sherlock is a giant twat and won't come visit his brother while he's in the hospital."

Sherlock doesn't seem fazed. "Sounds like a promising start, though some editing might be in order. Now you'll have something to think about on the way there." The doorbell rings again. "Take your time, the more you delay the more irritated he gets."

"I'm leaving now!" John snaps, pulling his gloves on. "Try to have mustered up some sympathy for your brother by the time I get back."

Sherlock just rolls over again, but John's pretty sure he hears him mumble, "Highly unlikely."

He spends the ride over being thoroughly ignored by Anthea and trying to think of something appropriate to say to Mycroft. He gets as far as, "Congrats for living a life worthy of a Bond movie and, you know, not dying." before he gives up. For some reason he can't picture Mycroft in a hospital gown, not unless they've suddenly started making them with waistcoats. The mental image makes him snort, and Anthea actually looks up from her blackberry to raise her perfect eyebrows at him.

They don't drive to Bart's like John had half-expected, but instead end up at some clinic he's never heard of before. Anthea lets him in to a private room and then shuts the door behind him; off to topple empires or whatever it is that she does. The room is bizarrely ritzy for a hospital; the bed and machinery is about the same, but the wallpaper is a rich ochre and instead of uncomfortable plastic chairs set out for visitors there are two cushy looking armchairs. Mycroft is awake and much more alert than John would have been given the circumstances, and is thankfully wearing what looks like a silk robe, so John is spared the mental scarring. His hair is just a tad mussed but other then than he looks like the most regal, put-together human being John’s ever seen in a hospital bed. Figures.

"Good afternoon John." He says pleasantly, still and calculated as ever, though that may be in part due to the formerly gaping wound in his gut.

John nods in greeting and goes to stand at the foot of his bed. "Afternoon. Er, sorry Sherlock isn't here. He was... Busy on a case today." The lie is so transparent that Mycroft gives him a pitying look and John clears his throat uncomfortably. "I'm sure he'll stop by at some point. You know how he is."

"I'm sure." Mycroft says in the sort of soothing tone that makes John feel like an idiot. He stands a little straighter.

"So do I get some sort of explanation? No, wait, don't tell me- government secret, need to know basis, you could tell me but then you'd have to kill me, that sort of thing."

"Precisely."

John snorts. "Can you tell me how you survived at least? Not that I'm complaining, but I know from first hand experience that bullets to the stomach are sort of...messy."

Mycroft half-smiles at this, and John gets the feeling that he knows exactly what he's talking about. "My assistant has many talents."

"Anthea?" John's eyebrows nearly fly into his hairline. He tries to picture her saving Mycroft’s life, or even just putting her phone down, but his imagination fails him.

"Hmm? Yes, most of the time. Though recently she's been calling herself Hermes." There's a pause. "Now I'm sure you're wondering why I've brought you here."

"...Er, no." John frowns. "Not really. You got shot; a visit seemed to be in order." He examines Mycroft's impassive face. "Are you telling me that even hospital visits have ulterior motives in this family?" The answering expression is all the reply John needs, and so he sighs and says quite fervently. "God forbid I ever go to a family dinner."

"Actually that's what I've called you here to talk to you about."

"Dinner?"

Mycroft's jaw twitches, and John decides that he should probably stop bating the man before he ends up at the bottom of the Thames. "No." he says curtly. "In light of recent events it's come to my attention that my will needs to be altered."

John jerks to attention, "You're not dying are you? Sherlock never mentioned any long term consequences-"

Mycroft cuts him off with a look, "I'm not dying, nor do I plan on doing so in the foreseeable future. The repercussions are... Not optimal, but neither is this situation. In due time I will heal. Now if you'd let me finish?" The question hangs pointedly in the air.  “Now as I was saying, I've made some changes to my will. Previously most of my affairs fell to Sherlock- I've always found this a rather unfortunate matter, it doesn't seem beneath him to pawn off my possessions out of spite and there are some heirlooms I had hoped to keep in the family. Fortunately a new option has arisen, one that I have a bit more faith in."

"Oh yeah?" John says, bemused, "Who?"

Mycroft's eyes gleam dangerously. "You."

"What?" Perhaps Mycroft's medication is stronger than John had previously thought. "I'm not even family! Don't you have anyone closer that you trust? A younger cousin, or... An aunt twice removed...?" He stares at him a little hopelessly. "Why me?"

Mycroft smiles. Oh yes, he's perfectly sound of mind, he's just evil. "I do not claim to know much about the inner workings of my brother’s brain John, but I do know that he is not one for commitment. The longest relationship he's ever maintained has been with that coat of his."

John is really unsure as to where this is going now. "So you think that he's going to quit his job and run away? Even if that was true I highly doubt me holding his inheritance for ransom would stop him from leaving if he really wanted to- which he doesn't, by the way."

"Which happens to be exactly what I'm saying." His smile widens. "You've reached a rather erroneous conclusion when it comes to my motives but we arrived at the same point in the end. I do not think he's going to run away from you John. In fact, quite the opposite, I believe he's going to propose."

John is trained to react on gut instinct- has spent years making sure that nothing can throw him to the point that he won’t be able to respond. It had saved him, and others, time and time again in Afghanistan, and perhaps doubly so here in London with Sherlock. However, he finds his brain is suddenly, maddeningly, blank. "Um." He says intelligently. "No."

Mycroft's eyebrows lift incrementally, "No?"

"No, not no, but no, he's not. His brain doesn't even work that way- at least, I don't think so. He doesn't- think like that. He's too busy thinking about the lifespan of houseflies or the rate of bruising on corpses or whatever the hell goes on in his head." He shakes his head roughly, trying to pin down his thoughts. "So, uh, no."

There is a long pause in which Mycroft stares at him and John stares back. Mycroft looks away first, but it's so deliberate that John doesn't really feel like he's won. "Very well," He concedes, "Believe what you'd like. All of the paperwork has been filed anyway, so whether you believe I'm right or not you're now the official owner of Sherlock’s inheritance."

"...um. Thank you." John says, because he doesn't know the proper response to that. Or any of this really- his mind is spinning hectic circles.

"You're welcome." He looks purposefully at the door. "It was nice to see you again. Anthea will take you back the car."

John nods woodenly and then leaves without saying anything. (Which is probably not the proper way to treat the man who's just theoretically given you all of his worldly possessions, but whatever.) Anthea is waiting just outside the door, taping away at her phone again. "I know someone that could help you out." She says without looking at him.

"What?" He glances at her distractedly, and her eyes flicker up to smirk at him.

"With tuxes, for the wedding. I know a guy."

John turns away from her robotically. "Please take me home now."

"Certainly Mr. Holmes."

His strangled groan is so loud that Anthea has to bodily remove three doctors who insist that he sounds ill and should be examined.

The car ride home is a blur of nausea, though John isn't sure if that's more due to the speed of the streets passing outside the window than it is actual emotion. Mycroft must have paid someone off at some point because not once has John ever seen one of his drivers follow laws like a normal person.

The implications behind the idea that Mycroft is right aren’t all that bad _really_ , John thinks, they’re practically married already. John takes care of keeping track of the expenses for the both of them, and he’s the one that makes sure they get paid. Financially it seems smart, logical even. John knows with a certainty that- god, even though he sometimes wants to wring the man’s stupid neck- he has no inkling of ever leaving his side. It’d be more likely that Sherlock simply got bored of him and wanted him gone and, miraculously, that doesn’t seem like something that’s happening in the near future. The ceremony, if there was one, _hypothetically_ , wouldn’t even have to be a big deal. They could just get a marriage license and- he’s smacked with the sudden and disturbing mental image of Sherlock in a wedding dress and it's so alarming that he slams his head against the window.

"Shut up." He tells Anthea, and she laughs.

By the time he climbs the stairs to 221B his head, and stomach, have calmed a bit, though he's not sure why. Perhaps it's the familiarity of it all; the smell of Mrs. Hudson cooking downstairs combined with the slightly sulfuric odor of whatever Sherlock is doing in their own kitchen. When he reaches the doorway he calls, "I'm back!"

"Obviously." Sherlock calls back, which is about as civil as it gets really.

"Three high end doctors are now under the impression that I have some horrible stomach virus and need testing, Anthea is calling herself Hera or Hermes or something," John hangs up his coat. "And your brother is under the impression that you're going to ask for my hand in marriage."

The tinkering sound of glassware, which had previously been coming from the kitchen, stops suddenly. And then there's an explosion of noise and the sound of something shattering.

"Sherlock!" John cries, nearly twisting his ankle as he skids into the kitchen. "Wha-!"

Sherlock is standing perfectly still, staring at the broken beaker on the floor, and growing increasingly red in the face. He sees John out of the corner of his eye and jerks violently. "Damn Mycroft!" He explodes. "Even incapacitated he feels the compulsive need to _spoil everything_!" And then he strides past John and into the living room.

It is quite possible that John has lost his mind. He wheels around to watch as Sherlock snatches up his violin and begins aggressively tuning it. "Um. Sherlock," He says, starting a sentence even though he has no idea how he's going to end it.

Sherlock freezes, arms now poised to play and facing resolutely toward the window. "Logically," he says. "It seemed prudent."

He spends the rest of the night sawing away at his violin, music loud and screeching, and avoiding John's eyes.

In the morning, John says yes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

No shots are fired at their wedding, but that's probably because it consists of dressing nicely and signing some papers in a register office. John invites Mrs. Hudson, Harry, and, to Sherlock’s frustration and dismay, Mycroft, to sign as witnesses. Mrs. Hudson is tearful and tittering, which is very sweet if not a bit embarrassing, while Mycroft is composed and smirking. Harry doesn’t try to make it about herself even once, though she had fought tooth and nail to be a witness, and Sherlock looks incredibly dashing in his suit, so all and all John writes it off as a success. Lestrade congratulates them both and then chortles a lot after he’s told, and John’s relieved that he doesn’t seem to be annoyed that he wasn’t at the actual ceremony. (John had been trying to keep it as small as possible, if simply to keep Sherlock from snapping and demanding they elope or something equally ridiculous. Inviting Mycroft had been pushing it really.) They forget to tell Molly- well John forgets, Sherlock _says_ he does- but one day she sees the twin rings on their hands and goes very quiet before she leaves the room, returning with shiny eyes, but smiling.

The lack of violence doesn't make it any less important.

 

 

 

 

 

 

John doesn't know any of the Yard officers that die in the mysterious murders, but the expression on Lestrade's face makes him feel like he does.

After visiting the crime scene of the third murder, a red haired plain clothes officer, her death made to look like suicide, just like the others, John forces Sherlock to take them somewhere they can get breakfast.

"This is ridiculous." John sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. "There's almost nothing linking these people; different jobs, different divisions, hardly even knew each other... Sherlock?" Sherlock is ignoring him, staring into the middle distance somewhere over John's right ear. John sighs again, "We should retire." He says, knowing Sherlock's not really listening. "Maybe to the countryside. How do you feel about bee-keeping?"

"Sounds tedious." Sherlock mutters, surprising him.

John snorts and impales his eggs with his fork. "Okay. Thoughts on the murders then?"

Sherlock doesn't answer him again and so John gives up on conversation in favor of giving his meal the attention it deserves. He's almost done eating when Sherlock’s gaze snaps over to him and he says, "Maybe someday."

John frowns and mentally rewinds back through the last five minutes of silence, but can't think of anything that would have prompted Sherlock's apparent non sequitur. "What?"

"The bees." Sherlock says, glancing away again, "Maybe... Someday."            

For a second John is baffled by this un-Sherlockian turn of events, but slowly, incrementally, he grins.

Someday sounds perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

John knows guns; knows the specific weight of his Browning and the intimate warmth of its barrel when it's just been fired. Guns have taught John lessons and given him purpose. Guns have changed John, so it seems only fitting that they are what end him.

All in all it's over very quickly.

The shot that kills John Watson takes him right in the chest. His body reacts before his mind registers any sort of pain, head jarring against the wet cement of the alleyway when he falls, but when it hits him it's everything and nothing he's ever felt before. Like the implosion of a star. Like a black hole in his heart, consuming.

For a moment John can't process anything.

And then he can.

Sherlock is over him, shouting, judging by the look on his face, though John can’t make sense of what he's saying. The inside of his head is like bad television reception; all stutter-stop and filled with the overwhelming sound of radio static. Distantly he recognizes that Sherlock has let the assassin who had been hired to kill the old woman and now has put a bullet in his heart get away, and maybe on some level he's touched but on another level he's screaming. It's like the pain is a wall that's impossible to think around, every time John tries to slip past it slams back twice as hard. His body twists and jerks of its own accord as it tries to find some sort of relief but of course it can't because it's _in him_ , oh God, it's in his chest, _its in his chest_.  And there is literally _no escaping it_.

But then, it occurs to him, there is.

John Watson is a brave man- a strong, loyal, stupidly courageous man, and he once swore that he would never succumb to death effortlessly, would not give up. But John is also a doctor and a soldier, and so he knows a lost cause when he sees one and he's seen too many men leave this world screaming and, damn it all, he doesn't want to be one of those men. 

John Watson is dying.

The idea is much less shocking the second time. He's dying, but he's not alone now. Hasn't been alone for the longest time.

He shudders in a breath.

Sherlock is hysterical above him now, red faced and yelling, in the throes of a tantrum. Oh, this will hurt him, John knows, he does so hate it when things aren't in his control. He reaches up and grips Sherlock's coat in one hand, tries to touch his face and calm his frantic eyes but they're too far away. "Sorry," he gasps, his chest rattling. "Sorry. Sorry."

There should be something to say to him now, some script pre-written to tell your loved ones as you die in their arms- something John should have come up with a long time ago knowing their lifestyle, but he finds that now, in the pivotal moment, his mind is simultaneously crowded and still. There are too many words but not enough time to say them. Take care of yourself after I’m gone, for me at least. Don't let this ruin you; you're strong enough to get through it, I know. Please keep on living, I can't bear the thought of this world without you in it. I love you. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you.

Oh hell, there’s no point. He knows. He has to know; Sherlock always knows everything.

Sherlock is quieter now, rocking back and forth on his knees, eyes wide and horrified and shell-shocked. He's cradling John's hand in his own, ghosting kisses across John's knuckles and mumbling. He can't quite feel it, can't quite feel his hands, but the sensation is familiar enough to him that he can imagine it and that the sight is still comforting. He wonders what Sherlock is saying- if he's saying his goodbyes or still hasn't accepted it. Mostly John can just make out his own name.

His brain is moving slower now, sentences and grammar and punctuation deconstructing into basic words and feelings. Sherlock, he thinks, Sherlock.

"I'm sorry." John tries again. "Thank you."

When his vision fades he dreams of guns and bees and soft-winged crows.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Wrong End of the Gun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699574) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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